


"All I ever wanted."

by AuthorinExile



Series: Fictober 2020 [10]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Daydreaming, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Mages, Redcliffe (Dragon Age), Slow Romance, Storytelling, Tevinters, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-13
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-21 05:21:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30016752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AuthorinExile/pseuds/AuthorinExile
Summary: Cassandra and Varric are more than happy to accompany the Herald into Redcliffe, even if they don't like each other much. Then they spend a year in a nightmare.
Relationships: Cassandra Pentaghast/Varric Tethras, Female Hawke & Varric Tethras
Series: Fictober 2020 [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2147928
Comments: 1
Kudos: 6





	"All I ever wanted."

**Author's Note:**

> My canon Inquisitor took Varric and Cassandra to Redcliffe. They went in hating each other, and they were still willing to fight and die together in that last scene. That little nod they give each other wrecked me, and this is what I think led to the type of relationship that makes you willing to die together.

It happens so quickly that Varric barely even sees it.

One minute, the Herald and the new mage were standing there, and the next, they just  _ weren’t _ .

They aren’t standing there, and there’s nothing left. Andraste’s tits, there isn’t even a stain on the floor. There’s just a total, all-encompassing  _ nothing _ in the space their only hope should stand.

Cassandra shouts,  _ screams _ , and Varric doesn’t know Nevarran, but he knows what unbridled hatred and despair sound like. That kind of emotion, he figures, is pretty universal.

Varric pulls Bianca up to his shoulder before he really registers what this means. All he knows now is that he has to fight. Frankly, it’s lucky that’s all he has to do, since he’s gotten so good at it he can do it without conscious effort at this point.

All but one of the scouts close ranks around them. The one that doesn’t has already vanished in the direction of the secret entrance, and Varric’s heart sinks uncomfortably as he realizes that they just have to buy time now. There’s nothing they can do except hope that scout can get to Leliana and Cullen and send reinforcements.

As he watches Venatori guards stream into the hall like ants, he realizes they won’t be getting reinforcements in time for the effort to be worth it. As he watches Cassandra fall to the ground with a sickening thud and a strangled cry, Varric realizes that there won’t  _ be _ anything to reinforce.

He fights anyway. Varric fights until they beat him into unconsciousness and he can’t fight anymore.

He wakes up in a dungeon.

He’s locked in a cell. There’s a single flat pallet in one corner and a chamber pot in another. Not that they had the decency to put him on the pallet, of course. No, they left Varric crumpled against the iron bars. When he wakes, he hurts even more than he normally would after a beating like that--which roughly means he wakes up and wishes he hadn’t.

“Thank the Maker,” he hears whispered from across the room. “You were so still. Oh, Varric, I thought you were dead.”

Varric’s in a lot of pain, and he’s still coming to terms with the Herald’s apparent death, but he’s still  _ Varric _ , so it’s reflexive to respond with, “Disappointed you couldn’t off me yourself, Seeker?”

“Don’t even say that,” Cassandra hisses. “I’m serious. The way they hurt you…”

Varric, who has finally pulled his battered body into something approximating sitting, looks over and is well and truly shocked by Cassandra’s appearance. Her face is so pale that her scar looks like a fresh wound, and dirt and blood and what little kohl she was wearing have been smeared down her cheeks. He’s almost positive that not a single drop of that blood belongs to her, but it still stands in stark contrast to the pallor of her skin. Her hair, he notes distantly, is still perfect, but her eyes are puffy and red.

_ She’s been crying, _ he realizes.

“Shit, Seeker,” he breathes. “You miss me that much?”

Cassandra gives a quiet, watery laugh and says, “Actually, Varric, I’m just allergic to the apocalypse. My eyes water like crazy.”

Varric’s split lips pull into a smile and a worry he hadn’t even realized was building in his chest eases ever so slightly.

“Little late to be endearing yourself to me with snark, Seeker,” he says with a smirk. “Should’ve tried a bit earlier, when you had time to woo me properly.”

“Eugh,” she snorts, shaking her head, but her heart doesn’t really seem to be in it. “I assure you, Varric, even the end of the world couldn’t make that happen.”

“Is that what you think this is? The end of the world?”

Cassandra pauses, obviously as surprised by the emotion in Varric’s voice as he himself is.

“I think,” she says slowly, “that the Herald is-- Lavellan is gone. And without her help…”

“Shit,” Varric whispers with genuine feeling. “Shit, you’re right.”

“The others will fight,” Cassandra assures him. Her eyes are not as certain as her voice. “Leliana and Josephine and Cullen… None of them is the type to give up. They will fight back against these magisters.”

“Yeah,” Varric replies because that much, at least, is true. The Inquisition will fight to the last man. 

They just won’t win.

Time passes strangely in a dungeon with no light but the constant flickering of candles, but Varric knows it’s a long, long time until someone comes down to check on them.

The guards don’t say anything, and the helmets obscure any expressions they might make. It’s uncomfortable for Varric, who’s so used to reading people’s faces and behaviors that it’s become something he does without even thinking about it. Having that stripped away from him makes him feel… Exposed. Naked. Utterly defenseless.

He doesn’t like it.

He likes it less when the guards pull out keys and move towards the door of his cell.

“No,” Cassandra says, moving forward to grasp the bars of her cell. “No, do not go near him. Stay away from us.”

The guards will not listen. Cassandra knows that, Varric figures, but he appreciates the effort.

Varric decides not to plead. He doesn’t even move from his position against the back wall until one guard, now fully in the cell, reaches down to cuff his hands.

This is when Varric launches himself forward, using all of his dwarven strength to spring at the man. Cassandra gasps, but Varric is focused solely on the guard. He doesn’t try to kill him, he doesn’t  _ need _ to kill him. All Varric has to do is knock him into unconsciousness, take his keys, get Cassandra out, and then--

And then…

And then they can figure something out together

Varric even makes good progress on his almost-plan. The first guard, not expecting any resistance, goes down hard when Varric hits his torso. As he lays prone in shock, Varric stomps as hard as he can on the man’s groin--mostly for spite, he’ll be the first to admit, but also to make damn sure the guy can’t follow. The second man has already drawn his sword by the time Varric exits the cell, but Varric has now grabbed a dagger from the first guard’s belt, and he drops into a fighting stance. 

“Bring it, dipshit,” Varric mutters as the guard swings at him--an opportunity Varric uses to duck under the sword and stab the man between the ribs with a few well-aimed strikes.

With a groan of pain, the second guard falls to the ground. Varric snatches up his keys and walks over to Cassandra’s cell, flashing a cocky grin in response to the expression of bafflement on her face.

“What? Did you think I was just a pretty face?”

Cassandra opens her mouth as though to speak, thinks better of it, and closes her mouth again. A small crease appears between her eyebrows.

“Varric, that was very dangerous. What if--”

“Had to try, Seeker. Had to try. Now if I only knew which of these damn keys could--”

Varric’s words are cut off by the squeaking of the door and his own near-silent, “Oh fuck.” Cassandra’s hand wraps around Varric’s, and her eyes become wide and pleading.

“Go,” she whispers. “Get out while you can.”

“I’ll come back,” Varric swears. 

He knows immediately that she doesn’t believe him. He’s not sure he believes himself.

“ _ Go _ .”

So he does.

Varric tucks the keys into one of his many hidden pockets and slinks back into the shadows. Every ounce of his experience as a rogue bubbles up into him as two more guards enter the room and immediately begin cursing and rushing over to inspect their companions. After they realize that Varric’s cell is the only one empty, they round on Cassandra in fury.

“Where is he!?”

Cassandra  _ howls _ with laughter. 

“As if I would say!”

One of the guards pulls his sword and the other begins unlocking Cassandra’s cell.

Varric only sees Cassandra’s smile, wide and unafraid, before he dips out the door and is gone.

He disappears through empty rooms and deserted hallways until he finds the kitchens. He pauses here for two reasons:

  1. Almost every kitchen has an outdoor exit to make the transport of supplies easier. _This_ is his way out, if only he can find a way out of the castle courtyard and back to Redcliffe itself.
  2. He’s _hungry_. He has no idea how long it’s really been since he’s eaten, but it’s clearly afternoon now, and it had been near evening when they’d arrived to speak with Alexius, so at least a day.



So Varric stops for long enough to shove a handful of food into his pockets, half a loaf of bread in his mouth, and peek outside into the courtyard itself. The good news is that he can see the gate out of the castle from here. The bad news is that Venatori guards line the stairs across from the gate, obviously positioned in case of a retaliatory attack by the Inquisition.

There’s absolutely no way that Varric can get to the gate, open the gate, get through the gate, close the gate,  _ and _ escape down the bridge without being swarmed by dozens, maybe even hundreds, of guards. 

So unless he can find the secret passage Leliana had told them about, he’s fucking stuck here.

Varric has just accepted that and steeled himself for the task before him when he hears someone behind him say, “Well, look who we’ve got here.”

Varric spins around, dagger at the ready, but all it takes is one sharp blow from the Venatori’s own daggers to make him drop it. Frightened and bleeding, Varric swings at the man, but it only takes a high-pitched whistle for reinforcements to come streaming down the stairs.

He is unarmed and unarmored, and it takes only minutes for him to fall.

When he wakes this time, Varric is naked and locked in manacles attached to the ceiling high above. His arms are strained behind him, his knees are pressed into unyielding stone, and the ache of his body makes him groan softly in pain.

“You’re awake,” a man says gleefully behind him. “ _ Excellent _ .”

And then all Varric has is pain.

He wakes in his old cell. 

Not that he would know that under normal circumstances. Dungeon cells all seem roughly identical, and there is nothing particularly unique about this one.

Except for the fact that Cassandra’s quiet praying floats in the air around him.

When he pulls himself up, groaning in pain all the way, Cassandra yells, “Varric! Varric, are you--”

“No,” he cuts her off. “No, actually, I’m not alright.”

Varric hasn’t looked at her yet, hasn’t mustered the strength to open his eyes yet, but he hears the hesitation in her voice when she finally speaks to him again.

“What did they do to you?”

He slowly brings himself to open his eyes and look at himself. He is covered in blood, most of it his, and there is a vivid, angry burn on the inside of his left forearm. There are more burns elsewhere, but most of them can’t be seen from beneath his clothes. Not that he has the stomach to look at them, of course.

And-- And yes, there’s something else. Something hard and sharp in his right side, just between the ribs. Something thin and long, about the size of a sewing needle and twice as sharp. Something that burned a bright vivid red as they forced it into him.

“I don’t know,” Varric lies.

Cassandra understands immediately.

They come for Cassandra, eventually. It takes a while for them to muster up the courage--or so Varric says when Cassandra wonders aloud about their absence. It makes her smile, and Varric thinks Cassandra’s smile is probably the prettiest thing he’ll be seeing for quite some time. Maybe the rest of his life.

When they come for Cassandra, they come with five people. Varric wants to flatter himself and say that they learned from the mistake of sending only two for him, but he’s heard the stories people tell about the Seeker. That group is for her and her alone.

Privately, Varric thinks it was probably still an underestimation on their behalf.

When they enter the room, Cassandra lifts her head and breathes deeply as if scenting the air like a wolf. Or a dragon. A slow smile crawls its way up her face, significantly less pleasant than the one she saves for humor or happiness. It is, Varric notes, somehow just as charming.

“Varric,” she says quietly. “Did you know that red lyrium is, despite appearances, really quite similar to the regular stuff?”

Varric does not have time to ask for clarification, and Cassandra hides her smile as the guards approach.

“Stand,” one of the helmeted men intones.

Cassandra does, even going so far as to hold her hands up by her face to prove she is unarmed.

One of the guards moves forward with shackles in hand, and Cassandra’s grin returns.

She barely moves, merely flicks her fingers, and the man with the shackles and the one who was barking orders fall to their knees screaming.

_ Oh yeah _ , Varric thinks as he remembers Cassandra’s Seeker ability.

Cassandra does not waste time thinking about these things. 

She moves forward with all the unstoppable force of a tidal wave, taking the shackles from the dying man at her feet and bashing them into the side of the next guard’s head. As he falls, she takes up his sword, driving it quickly into his neck and swinging back around to block the blow of the guard that rushes into the cell for her.

The last guard turns and runs out of the dungeon. It would be impressive to Varric, he thinks, if he didn’t know the man was running  _ for _ help and not  _ from _ Cassandra.

Well. Not entirely from Cassandra, at any rate.

“Seeker,” he yells. “Seeker, there’s more coming. You’ve got to go.”

“I’m  _ trying _ ,” she responds as she dodges another swing, which… Yeah, that’s fair, actually.

Cassandra pushes the guard backward with a swift kick that startles him enough for her to sink the blade into his chest with a victorious grin. She ducks to grab his keys, but the door swings open, and more guards move into the room.

Cassandra has nowhere else to go, and she is outnumbered. Her back, however, is still to the open cell door. To Varric’s shock, she simply backs into it, continuing until her shoulders are pressed against the wall.

Varric is used to incorporating flips and traps and dodges into his fighting. The idea of willingly cornering himself is unthinkable.

But then, Cassandra’s fighting style is so much simpler, so much more brutal. The guards would have to enter that tiny space with Cassandra Pentaghast and her sword to get to her. They would have to stay in close quarters with her the entire time.

The guards hesitate at the cell door and exchange glances.

“Alright,” Cassandra says, lifting her chin defiantly. “Go ahead. I’m waiting.”

The guards close the door and lock it and walk out of the dungeons.

“Shit, Seeker,” Varric breathes in relief and terror. “That was dangerous.”

Cassandra sinks against the wall, still holding her stolen sword, and shakes minutely.

“Had to try, Varric. I had to try.”

They get food, eventually. By then, they’re so hungry that they only spare the tiniest of glances over the food as a safety precaution before they begin eating.

When Varric wakes to Cassandra screaming, when he realizes that he’s still half-asleep and unable to move his heavy limbs, when he realizes that they were  _ drugged _ , he regrets not looking closer.

Cassandra is gone for a long time. 

Varric can not count the exact time, but it is long enough that he mentally recites almost every word of the first  _ Hard in Hightown _ just to keep himself entertained. Long enough that he has started to mentally edit the next one, wondering which plot threads to tie up when they get out of here. Long enough that his aches and pains have begun to heal.

Long enough that the sharp pain between his ribs becomes a sharp pulsing. Long enough that there is a fist-sized lump under his skin. Long enough that he has just begun to consider removing it with his nails when they finally bring her back.

They drop Cassandra into her cell with a dull thud. She does not move, and she does not speak, and Varric, too scared to know the truth, does not call out.

When Cassandra finally shifts, rolling onto her side away from him, Varric heaves a sigh of relief as sharp as glass.

“Seeker?”

“Hm.”

“Are you-- Did they-- Was...it bad?”

“They...did not get the reaction they’d hoped for.”

Cassandra rolls to face him, and her face is mottled with purples and greens. There is blood dripping from her nose. One of her eyes is swollen completely shut, and the other is surrounded by deep bruising.

“Red lyrium,” she says quietly, “does not enjoy Seekers very much, apparently.”

“Well, that… That’s good right?”

Cassandra turns away from him.

It becomes as reliable as clockwork, this schedule of theirs. 

They will be fed. Sometimes it’s drugged. Sometimes not.

If the food’s drugged, they will be asleep when one of them is taken. The one being taken will scream and yell and threaten, but it will do no good. When they return, they will be hurt even worse than before. Varric will inevitably have more traces of red lyrium scattered over his body. Cassandra will have vivid, angry marks where her body rejected the lyrium.

If the food is not drugged, they will talk. Sometimes, they plot their revenge or their escape. Sometimes, they reminisce. Varric learns about Anthony. Cassandra learns about the good parts of Kirkwall--the little things that humanize his friends and the things they did in the years he didn’t write down, when they weren’t changing the world. Sometimes, they wonder and worry about their friends in the Inquisition. Sometimes, they worry about the world.

When they aren’t being tortured or drugged or beaten, it is almost companionable.

“Varric,” Cassandra says, sounding like she regrets it even as she speaks.

“Yes, Seeker?”

“Could you… I mean, would you be willing…” She pauses to gather her nerve. “Varric, do you have any stories I could hear?” 

Varric chuckles.

“Seeker, I’ve just about told you all my stories. Unless you want to get into the Tale of the Champion again, I think you--”

“No, not-- That’s not what I meant. I meant… The things you write. You don’t exactly have a pen and parchment here. Do you… Have you come up with anything?”

The answer is, naturally,  _ yes _ , Varric does have more stories. He always has more stories. They bubble up in his head like tar and fill him up to bursting if he can’t write them down. He’s been coming up with stories since he was old enough to think coherently.

“Ah, Seeker,” he says instead, “I thought you were annoyed by my books.”

The fact that Cassandra is blushing now settles on Varric like sunlight, making him feel pleasantly warm and incredibly happy with himself.

“Not… Not all of them are as insufferable as you yourself are.”

“Eh, I don’t know about that. I have it on good authority that  _ Swords and Shields _ is almost as pretentious as I am.”

“It isn’t!  _ Swords and Shields _ is beautiful! The sheer love those characters have for each other--”

Cassandra stops speaking. Her eyes widen, and her face turns a bright, brilliant red, and she rolls over to face away from him.

“Forget I said anything,” she whispers.

Varric realizes he’s grinning so wide his cheeks ache.

“Now, Seeker, don’t tell me you’re a hopeless ro--”

“ _ Just _ ,” Cassandra hisses, “shut up. I could do without your teasing.”

Varric shuts up, but his smile doesn’t fade. He stares at the line of Cassandra’s figure against the stone floor as he settles against the wall. She is tensed up so much he can practically count her individual muscles. Trying his best not to do that very thing, he faces the wall across from him and begins to speak.

“Alright then. You’re probably wondering how the Knight-Captain gets herself out of that mess with the guardsman…”

When the fighting starts, they can hear it clearly despite being so deep in the dungeons.

“Cullen,” Cassandra breathes, bowing her head sadly.

“Yeah,” Varric agrees. “Figured Curly would show up eventually. Kinda surprised it took this long.”

“They won’t win.”

“Yeah,” Varric agrees.

By now, they’ve both come to terms with that.

There is no winning. Not anymore. Maybe there was never a chance of winning.

They’re not getting out of these dungeons. They’ve come to terms with that, too.

It still stings, Varric realizes. It still stings to hear the shouts of pain and the clash of swords and the blast of magic. It still stings to know that all their work was for nothing.

Or maybe that sting is just the burn of his bones becoming red lyrium. At this point, it’s kind of hard to tell.

Not for the first time, Varric thinks about Hawke and their friends, and he wonders if any of them are still around and fighting.

He doesn’t know which answer he hopes for.

One day, they bring Cassandra back, and Varric can tell right away that this time, they decided to stop waiting for the lyrium to take the regular way.

She stays on her side, facing the wall. Even from here, Varric can see the open wounds on her back that follow the exact path of her spine. Goddamn Venatori didn’t even stitch her up properly.

The red stones under his skin  _ sing _ , and the ones embedded in Cassandra gleam in response.

“Seeker…”

But he doesn’t know what to say.

He doesn’t have to try for long.

“You know,” Cassandra says dully. “I could really use a distraction. Do you have any stories I could hear?”

So Varric does what he’s always done best, and he makes some shit up.

Cassandra turns out to be a sap. He dials the cheesiness way up, and he hopes he’s helping even a little bit.

When the fighting outside stops, the silence is deafening.

Cassandra’s head shoots up to the ceiling, and they wait with bated breath.

But there is nothing.

They have no way of knowing this, but the truth of it settles over them like lead: the Inquisition has finally run out of men. They have fought to the last, just as Varric always knew they would, and they have lost. The Inquisition has finally run dry.

Venatori do not cheer in victory, it turns out. They just get to work cleaning up the aftermath.

For the first time in all that he’s known her, Varric watches Cassandra cry.

If the sight of her blurs and wavers in his own eyes, he certainly won’t comment on it.

“All I ever wanted,” Cassandra tells him on one of those days where they’ve just been contemplating the death of the world in silence, “was to change the world.”

Varric musters the strength to face her. It takes a lot out of him, and he thinks he can feel the crystals in his neck scrape and grind together with the movement, but he manages. He fucking manages.

“Well, Cassandra,” her voice continues with a little waver, “you did it, didn’t you? You changed the world. Congratulations.”

“Hey,” Varric interjects roughly. “This is not your fault. None of this is your fault.”

“Isn’t it? I told the Herald we needed to stop the Tevinter magisters. I was the one who encouraged an effort to stop them. If it hadn’t been for me--”

“Then Sparky would’ve done something like this anyway. Really, considering the Dalish history with Tevinter, you probably pushed her less than you think.”

“Varric, do not coddle me. I should have known better. I should have sought a different solution.”

“You did what you could, Cassandra. We all did. This isn’t anybody’s fault but the fucked up assholes in charge around here.”

Cassandra doesn’t respond, but that’s okay. She doesn’t have to believe him for it to be true.

“Your eyes have started turning red,” Varric whispers one day in horror.

Cassandra lifts one hand to her cheekbone hesitantly before dropping it as if her face is scorching. 

“Yes. I suspected they might be.”

“How? Does… Does it hurt?”

Cassandra glances at him and away almost guiltily.

“No. But yours have been doing the same. I figured it was only a matter of time.”

Varric doesn’t know what to do with that information. It twists something deep inside him to know that this will take  _ everything _ from him. He had been trying not to think about the way it would take his mind from him. He had been ignoring the fact that his ever-present words would one day evaporate into mindless mumblings and ramblings. He had been trying so hard to cope with the mental side of it that he just had not realized that his body would stop being his too.

“That sucks,” he says in forced casualness. “I’ve always had such gorgeous eyes.”

“You have,” Cassandra agrees.

It’s second nature to smile at each other.

The guards come in the night, but neither of them have been drugged.

This time, they realize, the guards  _ want _ them to be awake. After all these months, they don't really need to be drugged anyway. They're much too weak to fight back now. They are beaten and gagged and tied up and physically dragged out of their cells. 

When their eyes meet, Varric realizes with frightening clarity that this is it. This is the last time he will ever see Cassandra Pentaghast.

He’s not ready to lose her. He’s not ready for her to go. He has more to say. He has more stories for her. He has more that he wants so desperately for her to know.

Her eyes say she knows already.

He hopes it’s true.

Varric’s new cell is smaller.  _ Cozier _ , he’d say, if he had the energy to be facetious and the room wasn’t being shared with a hulking spire of red lyrium that saps his strength and sings to him at all hours.

Varric can’t ignore the singing, but with enough effort, he can drown it out. He can drown it out for entire days at a time, even, but only internally.

So he does. 

He pictures the Hanged Man. He imagines sitting in his comfiest chair in front of the fireplace, dressed only in his silk robe. Blissfully comfortable and blissfully warm and keeping only the best company.

Cassandra is there, lounging right beside him. For once, she isn’t in armor, but her outfit changes depending on his mood. Sometimes, she’s in nearly nothing. Most of the time, she’s lounging in pajamas nearly as comfortable as his own. “Nearly,” he says, because Cassandra is a practical thing, and he doesn’t think he could talk her into silk. 

Not that it matters. She’d look good in a potato sack, he thinks. It’s really just about making her comfortable. Cassandra deserves comfort.

_ Varric _ , she whispers in his mind.  _ Do you have any stories I could hear? _

_ Always, Seeker. _

And outside of his mind, Varric hums.


End file.
